Define Great
by VampireRacecourse
Summary: Magneto does some deep thinking about his past and family. Can tragedy change a man?


This really did come randomly to me. I was desperate to write in Magneto's POV (I'm a strange lass) so this is my attempt. Please review!  
  
"Some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon 'em." Twelfth Night, William Shakespeare  
  
*  
  
In my eyes, I achieved greatness long ago. I was not born great. Had my life been different, I may never have become great. There is one thing that separates those who will never achieve greatness and those who will, and that special thing is ambition. Drive. I did not sit back and wait for greatness to come to me but forced it out of myself with every drop of sweat and blood, every tear, every breath.  
  
Greatness, as some would perceive, is not goodness. No, it is not honesty nor morality. 'Great', I believe, is a colloquialism for 'good', but its real meaning is something quite different. Greatness is size. Greatness is strength.  
  
Greatness is power.  
  
There is nothing sweeter than the taste of power. We taste a drop and come back for more and more, until it is taken by the gallon. It is addictive, dangerous. Our bodies become weak and greedy, and we begin to thrive on it. The mind adapts to allow it into ourselves, making us less like humans and more like machines. Emotionless and cold, and yet at the same time insightful and calculating.  
  
There is no doubt that I thrust greatness upon the boy. He would never have been great otherwise. I taught him to separate himself from the world and all those insignificant little emotions that come with it. I showed him that to achieve greatness, you must believe that only you exist. Everything else is expendable. The only emotion I truly believed in was self-love, but I allowed him to love me too. It pained me to allow this but it was necessary, for I needed him to be loyal to me. I wanted him to be prepared to die for me, should the situation arise. I always told him that it was a great and noble thing to sacrifice your life for another, but it was not without hypocrisy that I said this. I would not have done the same for him.  
  
I could never have loved him. I saw him not as a son, but as my most prized soldier. I trained him to the point of exhaustion, and then I trained him some more. I squeezed every drop of weakness out of that boy from a very early age. I believe the last time he cried was when he was nine and there was that business with Wanda. I had been training him to avoid such emotions for two years before and was extremely disappointed to see that he had relapsed. He sat there, putting me to shame with his tears and sobs and looking at me as if I should do something to stop it, so stop it I did. I made sure he never cried again.  
  
Though there was never a time that I raised a fist at him, or even raised my voice. There was no need for that. If I had done that, I would have shown emotion towards him in some way, shape or form and that was not what I wanted. I was a father to him, but only biologically.  
  
Showing no emotion towards the boy had an unexpected effect on him. It gave him what I could not impress upon him- that essential ambition. He felt the need to prove himself to me and strived only harder to become great. It made me proud to see him taking the first few steps to greatness and even prouder to see that he was doing it for me. With very little effort on my part, I had produced an extremely loyal son.  
  
For this, I allowed him to call me Father. I knew that it only made his loyalty to me stronger. I started to include him more in my business, telling him of my dream. I drilled it into his skull night and day, making my ambitions and opinions his own. He started to become a younger version of myself. He had my mannerisms and figures of speech, but his face was undoubtedly his mother's. The same piercing blue eyes and pointed chin, the very essence of her enchanting smile. It troubled me at first, reawakening all the memories and feelings she had given me but I was strong enough to push it all to the back of my mind. She was dead now, after all. Insignificant, like the rest of them.  
  
But as he grew, he resembled her more and more. He moved like she used to, with an effortless grace. I remember the first time I saw her, she was wearing a long gown which hid her feet when she walked and I truly believed she was floating on air. From that moment on, I thought of her as a being not meant for this world. Magda, my own angel. I used to catch glimpses of her in him and hate myself for it. Sometimes, when he spoke, it was her voice that filled my ears and not his. I wanted to touch that white hair of his, just to see if it slipped through my fingers like hers did.  
  
I was ashamed of myself. Such feelings were making me weaker. When the boy was near, all I saw was Magda and I was reduced to a simple man, a man without greatness.  
  
Even years after her death, I could never accept that she was gone. It was wrong, unfair and completely unjust. When we married I made a vow to stay by her side always, but I was not present when she died. This made it hard to understand that she had gone, and impossible to accept that she had done it without me.  
  
Magda died after giving birth to twins. The labour had been distressing and took twenty eight hours in total. The doctors had forbidden me to be present, believing that I was a distraction and somehow stopping her. I had to sit in the waiting room for all that time, not knowing where my wife was or if she was alright. I didn't know if she was in pain or half insane from analgesia- all I knew was that she was there and I was here.  
  
In all our time together, we had never been apart before.  
  
I remember I was just drifting into sleep when I was rudely shaken awake. In the harsh medical light, the lines in the midwife's face ran like rivers down her face. The first thing she did was congratulate me. We'd had twins, a boy and a girl. However, I knew from the tone in her voice that bad news was to come. I'd expected to hear that one of the twins hadn't survived, but never in a million years my Magda.  
  
The strain of the labour was too much for her. She lost too much blood and her heart simply stopped.  
  
It was hard to bear. There I was in an empty room, holding two children that I didn't want and watching them take my wife away. I recall a vivid feeling of bitter resentment at the way they pulled the blanket over her beautiful face- it seemed like they were taunting me, telling me I'd never see that face again.  
  
If I hadn't loved her so much, I would have done the decent thing and put my children into care. I couldn't be a father, I knew that much yet I felt they were the only thing left in which Magda survived. I prayed that the girl would grow up to look just like her so I could see her again. I also had Magda's best wishes at heart. She had always begged me to look after them should anything happen to her. I knew ultimately that I would fail her.  
  
I had a sentimental urge to name the girl after her mother, but Magda had always expressed a disliking for parents who did that. She had always been original. I, however, could not be so creative and chose the names she would have liked. Wanda, for the romance of its sound and Pietro after the Basilica di San Pietro in Rome, her favourite place in the world.  
  
I soon grew to resent them. I started to see them as the reason my Magda had died. Their cries irritated me and though mere infants, I could hardly stand to be in the same room as them. I grew bitter and began to hate the world I was living in. I hated the doctors who could not save my wife, I hated the nurses who handed me these children and left me on my own and in general, I detested humans. I began to dream up ideals of a world where humans no longer existed and from that came the ambition I needed to one day be great.  
  
As I grew more ambitious, I became more distant from the children. I employed a nanny and made sure that I very rarely saw them. They were only an obstacle, now that I was building my ideal world. I trained myself up relentlessly, pushing myself further and further until I felt sure that I was invincible. It was then time to work on my mind, repressing all emotion until I felt nothing but power running through my veins.  
  
Once I felt I had achieved greatness, I believed it was time to work on Wanda and Pietro. From four years of age I gave them training. Any feelings I had for them, any beliefs that they were Magda reincarnated were long gone. Now they were simply pawns to the king on my chessboard.  
  
I was thrilled when their powers emerged early. I had been experimenting on them with needles and drugs. Pietro's powers pleased me greatly, but Wanda's were absolutely thrilling. I knew that she was the weapon I had been looking for, a great force of destruction. She was the key to my success, and together, we could have done great things.  
  
Sadly, it was not meant to be. Wanda was too difficult to control and began to resist my training. She was nowhere near as gullible as Pietro and would never be the loyal daughter I desired.  
  
The real reason I sent Wanda away to the asylum was because I could not bear the thought of her using her powers for anyone but me. I despised her for defying me and made sure she was kept in solitary confinement. She would suffer for what she had done.  
  
After she had gone I focussed solely on moulding Pietro into the son I wanted. I told him that if he defied me like his sister, he would meet the same fate. Possibly worse.  
  
When he was twelve years old and I could no longer cope with constant memories of Magda he evoked, I sent him out into the real world. Much like I had done with Wanda three years ago, I packed up all his things and told him to get into the car. I dropped him off at a random spot and without a word, drove away from him.  
  
Even as I saw his distant figure in the wing mirror, I saw Magda. Once, when we'd had a row I did the same thing to her. I threw her out of the car and left her standing there on the side of the road, completely helpless. I'd only driven a few feet away before giving in and stopping the car in the middle of the road. I practically ran to her, taking her in my arms and I could not stop telling her how sorry I was.  
  
What separated that episode from the latter ones with Wanda and Pietro was love. I loved Magda, but I could not love our children. Leaving Magda behind was awful, but abandoning the children was utterly painless.  
  
For five years, I was clueless as to where my son was or what he was doing. When he was gone, I did not think of Magda and I was much stronger for it. During that time, I did some great things. My position as a powerful mutant and a threat to mankind was fully established. It felt like a great hunger had been satisfied and a fire extinguished in me.  
  
Yet there were times during that period that I feared for myself. I had power, but I fought alone. I had associates and mutants working for me across the country, but I still felt isolated. I knew that if the end were to come, not one of them would think twice about saving their master. There was only one person left in the world who was prepared to do that, and I had foolishly let him go.  
  
I still longed for the son that would sacrifice his life for mine. What could be greater? Without him, I felt more vulnerable than I ought to. I realised that I needed him at my side when fighting, if not only for the reassurance that I could be saved.  
  
After weeks of searching, I received a call from a very beloved associate of mine, Mystique. She told me that Pietro had been found residing in a small town named Bayville under foster care. Together we decided that he would join her Brotherhood of Mutants, where I could keep a close eye on him. When the time came, I would find him and restore his faith in me.  
  
That time came more quickly than I had expected. The boy ended up in prison after wrecking an entire street and I seized this as my cue to reappear. If I got him out of that cell, I knew that he would perceive this as having saved him and in return, he would want to save me. Some people's minds work like that; they feel that favours must be returned.  
  
As I predicted, the moment I appeared and freed him, he returned to my side. I was thrilled that his loyalty had not been tainted by bitterness. It was a great compliment to my training process. It was made very clear between us that although he was with the Brotherhood, he fought for me. At first, I was content with this pact but with time his loyalty began to wane. He had found friends in the Brotherhood, which concerned me. I had been wise enough not to let him have such acquaintances when he was under my care for fear that he would begin to trust in others. It appeared that I had been right.  
  
I felt it was necessary to remove the boy from them for my own sake. He was given pride of place in the Acolytes. It was evident that he was proud to fight alongside his father. It made me proud too, to see the way he stood beside me with an ever watchful eye. To him, I was precious and I knew he would never let any danger come my way.  
  
The boy betrayed a lot of people for me, not least his beloved Brotherhood and his own sister. Wanda's return had worried me. I thought she could somehow win Pietro over to her side, turning him against me. Luckily, years of telling the boy how dangerous his sister was had extinguished the bond they once had. He now felt exactly the way I felt about him; that they happened to be two people who shared the same blood. No closeness or love, just the mere fact of being related.  
  
Wanda was angry and confused. In that kind of state, she was a danger to me and something had to be done to control her. I knew that her mind was less susceptible than her brother's from my previous attempts at training her, so I had her memories modified. I was no longer the heartless, abandoning parent but a simple father to her. I didn't want to make her love me, or even trust me. There was no need for two loyal children, forever watching my back. I simply wanted to quell the hatred and murderous urges she had towards me.  
  
Minus the threat of my daughter, I found myself growing even greater. Thousands for flocking to me, falling for my politics and I soon had an army. Pietro stood by my side as ever, obedient to the very end. His willingness to obey was not something he had been born with. Indeed, his very character and personality was down to how I had shaped him over the years. It was his face I could not change. Magda's face.  
  
I knew that even though I was great, I would never be quite great enough to forget her. When one has loved someone like that, it is simply impossible. I had toyed many a time with having my own memories modified, but even years after her death I could not bear to part with her. In my mind was the only place she truly survived.  
  
The boy asked about her once, but I refused to speak of it. She was my Magda and would never be his. He would not understand why she made me weak, how she made me almost human in emotion. Ultimately, he would not understand that I had loved once.  
  
I had taught him, after all, to love only myself and himself. How could he ever understand romance, or the kind of love I'd shared with his mother?  
  
The boy was a mere machine.  
  
Greatness had killed a lot of abilities in me. Anything that makes a person human in the eyes of others was gone. I could not feel guilt. I did not understand when what I was doing was wrong. I found it impossible to trust anyone that I had not altered first. I could not show affection or enthusiasm and my heart felt cold.  
  
I had thought that once I was great, my cowardice would disappear but it never did. Because of this, I strived harder and harder for more power. I had a vision of what the all powerful Magneto would be like and he became my idol. It seemed, however, that as I became more great he got further and further away until I could barely see him any more. My dreams became more difficult to reach.  
  
I was getting old, and am getting older still.  
  
Had I not been so ambitious, I would have given up years ago but to give up was to die. I suspected that my power was the only thing keeping me alive; it was oxygen. Deep rooted in my body, there was an insatiable hunger that was never quite satisfied. At the time I thought that this hunger was simply for power, now I begin to wonder if it was not something more.  
  
Today, I achieved the ultimate greatness. I broke all my boundaries and emerged invincible. It was just how I dreamed it would feel. There were humans, eyes wide and paralysed with fear and there were mutants, staring at me in disbelief. I was a hero, a saviour.  
  
It was just what I wanted.  
  
I stood there on the rooftop, staring down at them like a ruler over his kingdom. The streets were littered with debris and the remnants of life. I felt so incredibly alive, power running through every vein in my body. I knew I was now the greatest.  
  
Many minutes had passed when I sensed the presence of another on the roof. The boy, as always at my side, seemed to tense up. Somewhere in my mind I realised that this was the moment I had longed for ever since his birth. He seemed to know it too, for he moved before the shot even rang out.  
  
I could have manipulated that bullet and turned it on the gunman so easily. It was a trick that had saved my life many times before, but I wanted to give Pietro his final test. Was he the loyal son he had always made himself out to be? Could he be so noble, so great? I was fascinated to know if he would really die for me, as he had so sworn to do.  
  
The time it took for the gun to be fired and for him to run in front of me could only have been a second, but in my eyes it played out in slow motion. The bullet was there, flying towards me. First he frowned. Then he puffed out his chest. He looked at me, but I didn't give him the satisfaction of looking back. And then suddenly, all I could see was the back of his head, pure white as he fell back into me and we both toppled to the ground.  
  
It was done.  
  
He turned his face to me with a smile that echoed so much of Magda that it physically hurt. It was then, at that moment, that I was reduced to a man again. The broken boy in my arms was not a soldier nor a machine, but a son. All previous greatness flowed out of me, from my eyes and from the hideous wound in his chest. What had I done?  
  
"How old are you, child?" I asked him as he drank in the last of his air. The answer was evident; too young. How could I have wanted my own child to die for my sake? If I were truly great, then I would have taken the bullet for him instead.  
  
His shirt was soaked with blood. I wished that he'd stop smiling so. I knew what that smile said. He was proud of what he had done, because he thought that he had made me proud. That was all he had wanted over the years and this was the only way he believed he could do it. And why? Because that was what I had made him believe.  
  
Remorse overwhelmed me, but I could not voice it. How could I possibly apologise for what I had done? There were no words, no gestures that were even slightly apt.  
  
I hated greatness for what it had done to me. I had become a monster drained of all good emotion and inflated with evil and hatred. I despised and despaired of the fact that I had not been able to fight it and was now nothing but an old man with not a thing to live for.  
  
He stared at me, eyes becoming duller with every forced breath. I watched the light leave them, wondering if this was how Magda looked when she was dying. Did the eyes like chips of sapphire become grey as ash amongst her ashen, clammy skin? I felt his delicate, long fingered hands grip my face and he stared into it as if viewing his father for the first time. He had only seen me masked before.  
  
"Dad?" he whispered. I nodded and kissed his brow, pushing back Magda's beautiful angel hair. It was the first time I had ever touched him in such a way and seemed so ironic that it was also the last. Even then, I felt sure that I did not love him but there was one emotion that was evident; pity. How I pitied the boy.  
  
It was all I could do to cradle him like I never had when he was an infant, comforting him until he finally died. I sat for a long time holding his body afterwards, seeing his and Magda's souls blended into one.  
  
I never had the chance to lay Magda to rest, so I lifted him gently and placed him on the floor of the rooftop. I lay his hands upon his chest and tilted his chin up to the sky. Taking my thumb lightly to the side of his face, I drew it over his eyelids and closed those blue eyes to the world forever.  
  
There are no explanations for what I have done, no excuses. I was simply too weak to control or ignore the greatness that was growing inside of me. I let it dominate myself and others. I ruined lives. My daughter will never know happiness, and I have cost my son his life. I cannot say that I am sorry.  
  
All I can say is that I shall never be great again. 


End file.
